Who Said a Woman Can’t Have Sex Like a Man?

On a breezy Friday night in London, two best friends meet for drinks to celebrate our friend’s 30th at a high-class private club in Mayfair. Non-hookers welcomed. Obviously.

Obligatory birthday pleasantries out of the way, we acquainted ourselves with couple after couple, Single Boring Male after SBM. The complimentary Pinot Grigio consumption rate was as severe as a Lamborghini Murciélago, and a sneaky cigarette to break the boredom led us to the fairy-lit courtyard.

Using the Lighter Technique,* we managed the obligatory small talk and fake giggles with the only two vaguely approachable men outside.

After deciding the courtyard SBMs were less than entertaining, even on a “making fun of scale”, we moved on to the dance floor. At least half of the alcoholic calorie intake could be burned if we busted out for an hour or two.

In under three minutes and over three staircases, my phone was gone. The black Chanel-esque purse, chained diagonally over my body was not safe enough to protect it (my life) from the slippery folk in the club. Hookers welcomed. Obviously.

There were no tears. It’d happened once before (free vino teamed with carelessness). Not only had I lost my arm (also known as, iPhone), I had lost my best friend, the birthday boy and even the drippy SBMs. Time to go home.

A cab was out of the question. I couldn’t bare the thought of excessive expenditure when I was about to “re-invest” in an £800 phone.

So I waited at the bus stop, guilty and deflated. An attractive guy sat beside me. I can’t recall the conversation. After my night of Shakespearean tragedy he was a distraction from the pain and loss. He had a nice smile (I’m a sucker for good teeth). He made me laugh.

We kissed. It felt good. Especially when the scenarios prior had felt so bad.

He paid for the cab.

We barely spoke.

We fucked.

The thoughts in my head aggregated an intoxicated logic: “I don’t know his name. I can’t remember asking it. If I did I would’ve repeated it three times. So I will press on. Best not to ask now.”

He dressed. Staring. Shaking his head in disbelief. I could almost read his mind: “I cannot believe I just pulled at a bus stop.”

It was a shame I couldn’t give him my phone number. I’d have a new one tomorrow.

* The Lighter Technique

“Hi, I’m Sybarite, may I please borrow your lighter?”

Major eye contacted followed by an exaggerated blink.

Lights cigarette.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

Say his name three times in head, so to remember.

Lights friend’s cigarette.

“Thank you, Name. This is my friend Sybarite 2.”

Introduction completed. Chit chat, smoke, flirt.

All the while hiding own lighter in miniscule purse that matches perfectly with heels.

On a risk scale of one to 10, the Lighter Technique is a safe five. If you’ve been polite and charming throughout the first line of questioning, you’ve got my attention for a few seconds. If you made me laugh, I’ll hang around for a minute. And, if you tell me something completely unique I will stay to finish the entire cigarette in your company.